Late-Night Radio
by hipsbeforehands
Summary: A late night drive on a two lane highway. Walt contemplates life while Vic sleeps. Just a day in the life of two of Wyoming's finest.


**_We were rolling through the Rockies_**

 ** _We were up above the clouds_**

 ** _When a station out of Jackson played that song_**

 ** _And it seemed to fit the moment_**

 ** _And the moment seemed to freeze_**

 ** _When we turned the music up and sang along_**

 ** _The Song Remembers When—Hugh Prestwood/Trisha Yearwood_**

* * *

This is not a full-length story…just the description of a picture that kept popping up in my mind. Walt and Vic on the open road…headed somewhere late at night. For anyone who loves long road trips like I do, you probably have a memory like the one mentioned in the song above. I just wanted to try to capture this quiet moment between Walt and Vic as I see it in my mind. I hope I've been able to allow you to see it too.

* * *

In the dim, amber glow of the dashboard light, Walt surveyed Vic's sleeping form out of the corner of his eye. Her socked feet pressed against the dash, her toes curled slightly to maintain purchase against the worn vinyl. She was slumped down in the seat, and her head lolled to one side, resting heavily against the inside of her bent arm. Despite the late February chill, she had rolled her window down in a valiant effort to remain awake, and her pale hair now waved softly in the wind, stroking lightly across her cheek and forehead. As he watched, her chin dipped drunkenly toward her chest and her head nodded sharply, causing her eyes to shoot open and search blearily amongst the dark interior for some clue as to her whereabouts. Amused by the colorful expletive that slipped softly from her lips, Walt suppressed a grin and pretended to check the blind spot in his rearview mirror, despite the fact that he hadn't seen another soul on the road for at least a hundred miles.

It was late, and there weren't many folks on the lonely stretch of two-lane highway at this time of the night. He and Vic had arrived in Laramie around nine pm and done an immediate about face, heading straight home after relinquishing custody of their prisoner to the local sheriff. It was just after one now, and they still had two solid hours of driving ahead of them before they could call it a night. There was a winter storm gathering over the mountains, and he wanted to be sure they made it to Jackson Hole before the worst of it caught up with them.

When his passenger's tired, hazel eyes involuntarily slipped closed again, Walt waited the space of two full breaths before reaching out and cranking the heat up to full blast. The two of them could play freeze-out some other time-God knew they were experts at it by now.

The past few weeks had been rough on Vic, and though she'd never admit it, let alone ask for it, she needed a rest. He knew her well enough to know she'd refuse time off if he offered it, but last week he had offered it anyway, and in response she'd given him a look that would have made a lesser man quake in his boots. Walt had simply nodded his acceptance.

Vic would do as she pleased. It was one of the things he loved about her.

He shifted anxiously in his seat, uncomfortable with the ease with which his mind supplied that particular word in relation to his deputy. That innocent-sounding verb was, in fact, as tricky as they came, and he didn't toss it around lightly.

Love.

As a verb, it meant: _to care deeply_. To love. To _be_ loved.

In relation to her, it was dangerous ground that he dare not tread upon.

Besides, it was fanciful thinking anyway, with no basis in reality. At least that's what he'd thought until a couple of weeks ago when she'd pulled him up short in an empty alleyway, calling him out in a way he'd never expected.

 _Whether you like it or not, your life…it impacts mine._

Her words came back to him, and his gaze drifted once again toward her sleeping form. Her denim-clad legs were long and slender, and they flared into perfectly rounded hips, and he wondered, not for the first time, about her ability to maintain her athletic build given her endearingly questionable eating habits. The Busy Bee was not known for its healthy menu, and he knew she ate as many meals from the local diner as he did. Maybe more as of late, as he at least had Cady to bring him an occasional home cooked meal. Since Sean had left, he doubted Vic had set foot inside a grocery store. He couldn't blame her. What was the point of cooking for one? He knew that dilemma all too well.

His eyes flicked toward the road ahead and then drifted back to the right, picking up the familiar trail. Her hand rested loosely against the flat plane of her abdomen, the white t-shirt she'd been wearing beneath her utilitarian uniform causing her golden skin to stand out in stark contrast against the fabric. His palm itched to reach out and take her hand. In some ways, he knew it'd be as simple as that. All she needed from him was a sign, something to say that this thing between them was okay. But life was complicated, and sometimes the space between them seemed insurmountable.

His eyes lingered on the strip of pale skin surrounding her left ring finger.

He swallowed hard and glanced down at his own left hand.

A gentle sigh escaped her lips, capturing his attention. He saw more than heard it; the sudden rise and fall of her chest drawing his eyes to a portion of tightly-stretched fabric they had no business resting upon. Reluctantly, he moved his gaze upward, dragging along the delicate line of her exposed collar bones and, ultimately, coming to rest on the gentle curve of her cheek. Her lashes fanned out prettily against her smooth skin, and her perfectly shaped lips were parted just the slightest bit in sleep. Her face was completely relaxed, and she looked so damn young. He felt the familiar shame regarding his feelings for her wash over him, and he cursed himself, gripping the steering wheel until he could hear the leather groan in protest beneath the punishing grip of his weathered hands.

What business did an over-the-hill cowboy like himself have tying up the affections of such a vibrant, young creature? Vic wasn't a child, by any means-she was mature and capable, smart and savvy, but she was still young enough to want things from this life…things he didn't know if he was prepared to offer her.

And he had a sinking feeling that she'd deny herself those things in a heartbeat if she thought it'd make him happy. It wouldn't—but, honestly, he had little more to offer than what he'd already given her…

The reality was she just didn't know how much of him she already possessed.

Since Sean left and took their built-in safety net with him, Walt had done a good job of hiding his feelings behind long silences, broken only by terse, work-related conversation, not to mention ill-conceived avoidance tactics like taking up with Doctor Monahan. He still had no idea what had possessed him to go that route, other than blind panic over his feelings for Vic and her obvious determination to coax him out of his self-imposed isolation.

She'd come to mean so much to him in a relatively short amount of time, but keeping it in check had been easy…or at least easi _er_ , when her marriage to Sean had been standing between them. Looking back now, he can see that it was the relative safety that her marriage provided that had allowed him to drop his guard with her in the first place. He'd let her in, knowing it was safe because there was a line of intimacy that they simply couldn't… _wouldn't_ cross.

But where did that leave them now?

There was nothing standing between them anymore.

Except the fact that some days standing next to her made him feel a hundred years old.

Could he ever hope to keep up with her? His libido screamed insistently that he'd happily die trying. But he was a traditional man, and he didn't believe in jerking women around, especially not someone as special as Vic. In the long-term, could he ever hope to offer her marriage? He didn't know if he could bring himself to get married again. He'd always planned to grow old with Martha, and it still seemed wrong somehow to replace visions of her with visions of someone new. For as long as he could remember he'd pictured starting each day of the rest of his life seeing her cap of russet hair resting on the pillow next to his, but now he tried out a different version of his future, one where pale, blonde waves spilled onto his pillow and mossy, green-brown eyes stared up at him with traces of sleep still lingering in their depths. His chest tightened in response to the image his mind had so readily produced. It was startling how easy it was to imagine.

Honestly, he didn't even know if Vic would ever want to marry again, but even if she didn't, what about kids? He'd never heard her express a desire to have a family of her own, but he imagined that she probably wanted one. Maybe she would be willing to forgo the experience if it meant the two of them could have a happy life together, but when he thought of Cady and the indescribable joy she'd brought to his life, he realized he wanted that joy for Vic, and he knew that he could never ask her to give up her chance at motherhood.

She'd be damn good at it.

He pictured her holding onto a lead rope, guiding a familiar brown stallion around the corral at his house. In his vision, a small, blond-haired boy of three or four chatted happily from his perch atop the large animal, and Vic grinned adoringly up at the boy, completely absorbed in the simple moment between mother and son. He imagined that the boy was his son, too, and then he imagined how old he'd be when the boy graduated from high school.

Yeah, some days being by her side made him feel his age in every fiber of his being.

Some days though…some days she made him feel young, and alive, and vital-the days when she would throw her head back and laugh at him, telling him, eyes shining, that he was so full of shit he must be Cheyenne. Or the nights when they would hold down opposite ends of the same tattered couch in his office, neither willing to leave work long enough to grab a few hours of sleep at home. He felt a sense of sameness with her on those nights, a sense of connection.

Some days he absolutely thrummed with her energy, and on those days he could almost picture what life with her might look like.

He held tight to those moments.

He remembered walking arm in arm with her on a crisp, autumn afternoon. The sun had been slightly lower in the west, the better part of the day gone. They'd been posing as disgruntled adoptive parents looking for a family on which to pawn off their willful child. As he exited the truck that day, she'd slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, letting it rest just below the bend of his elbow, and she'd shot him a cheeky grin and shaded her eyes against the waning sun.

 _Help sell it_ , she'd murmured, shrugging easily in response to his surprised look.

He'd accepted her place next to him, wordlessly, even as his spine lengthened and his stride shortened. He'd stood a little taller during those steps he'd taken with her by his side. Each step, carefully measured to keep pace with hers, had seemed to set them on a path full of infinite possibilities, and in those brief moments he'd felt like a part of her.

It was an odd feeling, one he'd never quite experienced before…he hesitated over the word _premonition_ because that implied that what he felt would someday come to pass, and he simply didn't know if that was the case. Henry would tell him to trust in what the spirits showed him…to allow them to guide his way, but he was a practical man, and sometimes that was easier said than done. Regardless, that day with Vic by his side, he'd been struck by a profound sense of rightness. A sense of peace so powerful that his steps had nearly faltered in light of it. That simple moment, walking arm in arm with her, had stretched both forward and backward in time, as if he'd always known Victoria Moretti…and always would. It was a powerful sensation, and it had taken him days to shake it.

Walking next to her in those brief moments before they'd met up with their suspect's wife, he'd had no sense of separation from her. He'd felt a closeness with her that was ageless and timeless. It just was. He couldn't explain it any better than that, even now, nearly two years later.

"You have a nice voice, Walt," Vic commented, yawning. Her voice was sleep-filled and thick with disuse.

He hadn't realized he'd started to sing along with the old country station until her words broke through the monotonous combination of soft music and the sound of the tires on the pavement. If he'd been the nervous type, her words would have startled him, but as it was he just turned his attention from the road and watched as she righted herself in the seat next to him, adjusting her seatbelt and stretching the arm which had served as her pillow for the last seventy miles or so.

"Didn't know you were awake," he murmured, his gravelly voice barely audible over the sound of the wind coming through her open window.

"I'm not," she groused, before turning and smiling sleepily at him.

He smiled back, charmed. "You can go back to sleep if you want. I've got this," he said, nodding toward the road ahead.

She smiled more softly this time. "I know you do," she murmured, quietly, turning away. She relaxed her right arm and let it hang out the open window, palm up.

As he watched, she turned her hand over and glided it through the damp night air as if it were the wing of a delicate bird, rising and falling at the whims of the wind. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, allowing the cold breeze to rush over her face. After a moment, she began to hum along to the song coming through the speakers.

He switched the wipers and on and, without overthinking it, began to hum as well.

His eyes were back on the road now, as the first snowflakes were beginning to dance lightly through the high beams, but from the corner of his eye he could see her profile and the curve of her cheek as her lips slid into a relaxed smile.

He began to sing the words softly, letting them slip into the darkness and blend into the sound of the wind. When, on the last verse, her voice tentatively joined his, a familiar sense of connection washed over him.

He thought of Henry and the Spirits and of premonitions.

She turned in her seat to face him, and it was all he could do to keep it between the lines. The wind was at her back now, whipping her pale, blonde hair into wild disarray. Her cheeks and nose were pink and her eyes were shining brightly from the cold wind. Her smile was dazzling, and it seemed to light up the darkness that surrounded them.

The chorus came for the final time, and she reached over and turned the music up.

Their voices blended in ill-harmonized lyrics and easy laughter, and in that moment he was hard-pressed to remember a time in his life when he'd been happier.

When the song ended and her hand rested next to his on the faded bench seat, the distance between them didn't seem nearly as insurmountable as it had just a short time before.

 _Who needs premonitions_ , he thought, _when your present looks like this?_


End file.
